


In Their Flowing Cups

by Sharpiefan



Series: The Shakespeare Series [11]
Category: The London Life (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Backstory, Napoleonic Wars, Regency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 02:57:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6886672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharpiefan/pseuds/Sharpiefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Fourteenth Light Dragoons celebrate a promotion in their own inimitable style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Their Flowing Cups

**In camp at Hythe, summer 1804**

The atmosphere in the Mess of the Fourteenth Light Dragoons seemed, from outside the tent, to be extremely merry. The officers were celebrating the promotion of one of the most popular of their number, and the celebrations could be heard across the camp. The picketed horses tossed their heads, occasionally snorting or stamping as the noise from the candle-lit mess-tent drifted into the night air.

Inside the mess-tent, all was merriment with wine and brandy flowing copiously in celebration.

“Come on, Captain,” someone called – Robbie could no longer quite work out who it was; he was thoroughly on the wrong side of sober by now. “Let's have St Crispin's Day!”

“I don't...” he began with a grin, and was shouted down.

“St Crispin's Day!”

Someone at the other end of the table (probably Chadbourne) began a chant. “Crispin, Crispin...”

Robbie held up a hand, the silver lace of his jacket gleaming gold in the light. “All right.”

“On your feet, man!” The Colonel's voice was gruff and not to be ignored. Robbie obediently scrambled out of his seat and stood there, swaying gently.

“Better yet – on the table where we can all see!”

Robbie had no idea who the speaker was, but was unceremoniously bundled up to stand on the polished surface of the mess-table, long clear of cloth and crockery. Someone pressed another glass of brandy into his hand, and he held up the other, requesting silence (or as near silence as a group of foxed Light Dragoon officers could manage). Eventually the collected officers quietened down, and Robbie helped himself to another mouthful of brandy.

“Who's he that wishes so?” Robbie enquired, looking around and spotting Featherstonehaugh, who'd started this. “My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin: If we are mark'd to die, we are enow To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour.”

That brought cheers from the assembled officers and Robbie grinned. Sober or drunk, this was one of his favourite of Shakespeare's speeches.

 “By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not in my desires: But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive.” He essayed an unsteady bow, which was met with more cheers and gave him a chance for another mouthful of brandy.

He turned back to Featherstonehaugh with another bow that made him wobble a little. “No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England: God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour As one man more, methinks, would share from me For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more! Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,” at which point he turned to the Colonel, saluting him with a flourish of his glass that slopped brandy onto the polished table he was standing on. (And when had he been given a full glass? Couldn't people see any more? Brandy glasses weren't supposed to be _filled_ he was sure of that!)

“That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made And crowns for convoy put into his purse.” He indicated the open flap of the mess-tent, then turned to take in the rapt faces of the gathered officers sitting around his impromptu stage. “We would not die in that man's company, That fears his fellowship to die with us.”

This declaration was met with shouts of approval, and several men banged on the table. Robbie waited, a grave look on his face, until the clamour had died down a little. “This day is called the feast of Crispian: He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'”

He reached to suit the action to the word for the next part, slopping more brandy as he did so. “Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars. And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.' Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot, But he'll remember with advantages What feats he did that day.”

Someone stood to top his glass up at this juncture, and he turned again, regarding them all with a tipsy benevolence. “Then shall our names. Familiar in his mouth as household words Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.” He bestowed each name upon one of the men listening then paused again to take another mouthful – it was good stuff, this brandy, and could easily go to a man's head, he thought, inconsequentially. “This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remember'd.”

“Hear, hear,” said someone behind him, and he saluted the speaker.

“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile.”

The next turn was what did for him. He was closer to the edge of the table than he had realised, and never knew, afterwards, how he slipped – whether it was the polished surface of the table, the brandy spilled thereon, or his own unsteadiness on his feet. Whatever it was, he found himself flat on his back on the grass, staring up at the yellow candle-light dancing on the tent's canvas, and raised his voice so that the final lines should not be lost amid the uproar overhead. “This day shall gentle his condition: And gentlemen in England now a-bed Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day!”

There were cheers and whistles from overhead but the newly promoted Captain Fitzgerald had ceased to care about those, snoring gently under the table as the celebrating continued without him.


End file.
